


Stay With Me

by pridecookies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Mages, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mages, Mages (Dragon Age), Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:19:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pridecookies/pseuds/pridecookies
Summary: Sometimes a blood mage loves an elf who leaves him and a healer loves a blood mage who can't seem to stay.We love to see it.
Relationships: Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders/Male Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Stay With Me

When the door opened, it made a crashing sound against the wall, as if opened with hysteria. It probably was, considering who was opening it. The Hawke estate was completely dark with the exception of two small candles scattered around the bottom floor, one in the front entryway and another whose light was flickering dimly behind a nearly closed door. The air was hazy and smelled of charred paper and smoke and flame. Anders entered the estate and looked frantically around for the source of the smell before pinpointing it to the library. He ran toward the door and when he opened it, perched on his couch with a cat-like grace was Malcolm, intoxicated beyond belief and surrounded with open books and ripped papers. His hair was a mess, tousled and ridiculous, and he wore Amell house robes, badly wrinkled, and a single sock. At his feet was a small metal bin and inside it was a fire. He glanced up at Anders and snorted, almost as if it was an expected sight. 

“Don’t be mad, I’m having fun.”

“What are you _doing_?” Anders screamed, running over to the flame and casting an elemental frost spell to douse it. Malcolm watched with a sulking expression, a clear glass in his hand filled with a dark spirit. “Malcolm, you’re doing to burn the _blighted_ _estate down_!”

Malcolm leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, a lazy smile on his face, “How promising,” he snickered. Anders was not.

“This isn’t funny.”

“And yet,” Malcolm looked up and opened his arms in a dramatic gesture, “I'm laughing.” He downed the rest of the spirit and stood, stumbling over as he did so and barely holding himself upright. With arms outstretched in a chaotic balancing act, he looked at the other mage with a wry smile, “What are  _ you  _ doing?”

Anders frowned, “Looking in on you, obviously.” He scanned the room, his hand on his hips and his posture deflated. “It’s a good thing I did.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes and walked over to a small table in the corner where a decanter sat. He filled his glass and Anders watched him with both acute interest and concern. Malcolm looked up at him and held his gaze for a moment, both apologizing and defending himself within a single glance. The healer broke contact and knelt down at the bin to clean up some of the ashen papers that had fallen out of it. 

“What were you burning, anyway?”

Malcolm leaned against the wall and shrugged, “Whatever burned.”

“What, just to fill the house with smoke?” Anders frowned.

“I’d be willing to fill this house with anything but fucking silence,” Malcolm sighed, his voice quieter than before. He looked around the room, as if sizing it up for realty. “It’s too loud,” he said, pacing around the library as best he could in his inebriated state. “I need something less  _ intrusive _ . Silence is so probing. There’s nothing here that I care to salvage anyway. Well,” he ran a hand through his dark brown hair, “Except for that.” With a glance at the healer, Malcolm gestured to a manuscript on his desk. With a quizzical expression, Anders walked over and looked at it, reading the opening lines and looking back at Malcolm with wide brown eyes. They were mixed with surprise and a weak submission, he was asking permission to feel happy about what he was seeing. The expression launched an ache in Malcolm’s stomach that had little to do with the alcohol that was burning the lining of his insides.

“My manifesto,” Anders murmured.

Malcolm nodded, his drink still in hand, “It’s good. You shoved it in corners of my library as if it was something to hide. It isn’t. It’s something to scream until your throat runs ragged. You should be proud of it,” he encouraged, walking over to where the healer stood and leaning against the desk beside him, “I’m proud of it.” He offered an exhausted smile, the remnants of whatever joy he still had left in his bones laid affectionately at Anders’ feet, a sacrifice to an altar. The other mage held the manifesto he penned and his shoulders seemed to sink in as if the weight of his gratefulness was so heavy it was rendering him concave. 

“Anders,” Malcolm said softly, letting his hand rest on the desk, inching his fingers closer in a silent attempt to support. “Karl would be proud of it.”

The blonde healer looked at Malcolm and his eyes were lit with fire, their usual brown almost looked gold with the intensity of how desperately he needed to hear those words. He swallowed, looked away and smiled briefly. It was the most genuine smile Malcolm had seen from him in a long time. With glassy eyes, he returned his gaze to the manifesto, setting it gingerly on the desk. He turned back to Malcolm.

“You need to go to bed,” he ordered and crossed his arms, a disappointed parent chastising their child. Familiar sight. Malcolm smirked suggestively, his head drunkenly lolling to one side with mock enticement. 

“Is that an  _ invitation _ , messere?”

Anders rolled his eyes, “Malcolm, there is enough alcohol in your blood to sanitize the entire clinic for Andraste’s sake. I doubt you could even get up the stairs.”

“Have faith, yee sinner. It doesn’t need to be  _ upstairs _ , the floor is fine,” Malcolm poked the blonde mage a moment before he pushed himself off the desk, haphazardly walking over to the decanter yet again and pouring himself another glass with a teasing defiance. “So, that’s a no then?” Anders rubbed his face and sighed at the gesture. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” the healer mumbled into his hand.

Malcolm glanced up for a moment and then a smile curled on his lips that was so wide it could surpass the width of his face. It wasn’t friendly, it was sardonic. It was the kind of smile that struck fear into his opposition. He took another sip from his glass.

“ _ Festis bei umo canavarum _ ,” he mused into it. “I could be sprawled out on Meredith’s fucking floor with a wooden spike in my chest and somehow that sentence would still find its way to my ears before I died.” Anders watched the glass, his expression concerned. He glanced up at Malcolm with a single eyebrow raised in a silent probing gesture. Malcolm sighed. “It’s Tevene,” he said pointedly.

That was all he needed to say. They both knew what it meant. He bent down and started to pick up the pieces of everything Malcolm burnt.  _ You’re so good at that, aren’t you Anders? Picking up the pieces of what I ruin. _

Malcolm stretched, lazily swirling his glass and feeling the overwhelming fluidity in his head that came from its contents. 

“You and Isabela are no fun, you know,” he poked.

Anders looked up and sighed, “I talked to her at the clinic, actually. She mentioned your episode to me. It was worrying.  _ She  _ was worried.”

“Worried? Did she at least say it was arousing?” Malcolm teased.

“Not exactly, no.”

“That’s disappointing,” he chuckled, pacing around the library, dramatically gesturing like an actor on the stage, “I really thought I was playing the part of a broken, desperate man that  _ just needed to be held _ so well. I suppose I can’t fault her for saying no,” he said, resting back on the desk, leaning against it and watching the healer closely. “There isn’t a woman alive who wants to be the sexual proxy for an angry, brooding elf. Or a man, for that matter.”

“Is that what you wanted?” Anders asked, his expression guarded.

“Yes,” Malcolm said bluntly. There was no use running from it. The truth was usually faster than he was. Anders’ expression was blank but Malcolm knew him well enough to see the narrow twitch in his eyes for what it was. Wincing. 

“Why were you burning things anyway?” he finally asked.

“I was looking for something at first, it didn't look like much but it was to me. Red fabric, like a long strip. I—“ he cleared his throat, “—I got angry that I couldn’t find it, searched everywhere, then found the books we used to read,” his voice quieted, “Needed to burn them for my own sanity. The memory was poison and I kept drinking it.”

“What was it? The fabric.”

“My father gave it to my mother when they decided to get married. He was poor, there was no money for a ring. It was from his Circle robes. He tore a strip from it, sewed the ends, and presented it to her to wear as a favor. Hawke’s favor. He said that the Circle enslaved him his entire life, he wore those robes every day, cloaked in the Chantry’s enforcement quite literally, and that loving her was a cage he would gladly sit in. Then again, that’s what love is,” he mused, looking into the air with a blank expression, “If sex is freedom, love is enslavement. We can’t rid ourselves of it, it weakens us, controls us, dominates us, affects everything we see and touch and need. It demands submission,” he took another sip of his drink and examined the contents, “And I hate it.”

“You never talk about your father,” Anders probed. Malcolm smiled, sardonic and twisted. 

“I don’t like being reminded of how much he would hate me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“That’s the legacy of sons, isn’t it?” Malcolm said, gesturing to the space between them, “To disappoint their fathers?” Anders didn’t respond and for a moment, Malcolm didn’t either. They merely looked at each other, blue eyes looking into brown. Men so similar and so close and desperately far from each other. Malcolm shook his head in wonder at the other mage. “If I was you,” he said softly, “then I would be proud to face his ghost. You’re the man my father wanted me to be.” Malcolm darkened and walked to the door of the study, looking over the empty front room of the estate. “But I’m not you,” he breathed into the dark, “And I hope his ghost never finds me. I couldn’t face his disappointment.”

He looked back at Anders and what he found there ripped the wound open wider. Adoration. Affection,  _ Respect _ , of all things. The other mage was standing in the middle of the library, holding the remnants of burnt books, exhausted from self-sacrifice, and looking at him as if there was no shame at all. Malcolm felt the ache again, overwhelming his insides. The truth was a visceral pain, a brand burned into him.

He knew it, it sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone in the sea. At some point, Anders would realize that there was no promise in the pain and that it was better for him to turn his back and walk away from ruination. Malcolm hoped he would, for his sake. It was better for Anders to reach for brighter places rather than sink deeper into the devastation and destruction and shit he so often waded in. He prayed to a god that often ignored him that Anders would love himself enough to stop hovering over broken places that he couldn't fix, desperately trying to patch him up with a look or a smile or a kind word. He would one day recognize that he deserved good things and Malcolm was not one of them. He knew it, he hoped for it, for his friend's sake. But it was going to kill him when it happened.

“What are you thinking about?” Anders probed.

_ You.  _

Malcolm shook his head and leaned on the frame of the door for support, “I have this image in my head, swirling around like a leaf caught in a current, of all the men I want to be,” he sighed, “and I’m not strong enough to be any of them.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No,” Malcolm rejected, “I’m stubborn, not strong. There’s a difference.”

“I think you are.”

“You think a lot of things,” Malcolm said, starting to feel the full effect of the alcohol. If he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t maintain, he would slip out of the comforting numbness that he had fostered and slide back into the depressive emptiness that he had barely contained. 

“Some of them are right.”

“Yes, and some of them are so romanticized it might as well be one of Varric’s books,” he said cautiously and then found himself amused, “Maker, can you imagine the book they could write about my life?”

Anders smiled, “It would be engaging, at least.”

“ _ Engaging _ ,” Malcolm paced, barely, into the front room, “It would be horrifying. There would be randomly inserted chapters of smut, shoved in between the devastation. It would start with Carver, stubborn and arrogant and too clever for his own good, arguing with me over every little thing. Then, our merry little band would come together and wreak havoc in the streets for coin. Isabela would be a highlight, the readers would adore her. Merrill would be too precious for her own good, shocking them at how savage she can be under that daisy-like exterior. Aveline would feel like the disappointed mother, telling me to grow up every other day. Fenris would—“ he stopped and swallowed, “—Fenris would be the little knife twist, the added brokenness to the narrative. Makes you care a little more about the protagonist, pity his folly.”

Anders followed him, dusting off his hands from the ashes and stood beside him. “What would I be?” he asked, his voice unsteady. 

Malcolm smiled, warmly, “You?” Anders nodded.“I don’t think a book could fit all the things that you are,” he put a hand on the healer’s shoulder, “You aren’t a book, you’re a library.”

“I don’t like this metaphor, considering that you just burned part of your library in a drunken stupor,” Anders teased. 

“Right, like I don’t make you feel like you’re on fire,” Malcolm grinned, removing his hand from his shoulder and enjoying the color that was rising to Anders’ cheeks. He took another drink from his glass and started to walk toward the stairs, “Your blush says differently.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“Maybe not,” Malcolm called over, “True though.” He paused and looked at the other mage, almost confused. He cocked his head to one side in observation. 

“What?” Anders asked.

“I have a bad habit that seems to cover everyone but you.”

Anders set his hands on his hips and looked expectant, “Which bad habit? You collect them, Malcolm.” 

“What did Isabela tell you?”

“She said you were upset.”

“Mmhmm,” Malcolm murmured into his glass, “What else?”

“That’s all.”

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“She was being kind,” he chuckled, “Trying to preserve my pride. I spent hours grating against her, quite literally at times, begging her to stay with me and distract me, shut my brain down.” Anders narrowed his eyes, probing for more information. He held his hands out and shrugged, “I shove pain under stranger’s beds, sometimes friends. Can’t hear my internal screaming if my ears are filled with moaning, like a heretical, hedonistic hymn. Whatever works,” he took another sip and looked over the rim and mumbled, “But never with you.”

Anders was quiet and then looked at him with a resigned expression, “It makes sense to me, really. You don’t think of me...that way.”

“That,” Malcolm laughed briefly, as if to himself, “is  _ absolutely _ not true. I do, in detail.” Anders stared at him like he said he was joining the Templars and Malcolm rolled his eyes, “I’m emotionally stifled, Anders. Not dead from the waist down. There has  _ yet  _ to be a moment where I haven’t wanted you. You seem to forget the day we met, I was forward. Per usual. Something about a sexy, tortured look. _Maker_ , that was a good line. You looked like I had given you Meredith’s head on a spike. You’re desirable, I just choose not to do anything about it.” He shrugged and took another sip, “What is it with feathers, by the way? Is it the style, the elegance? Is it that you wear freedom like a mantle on your back and flying is a metaphor? Little on the nose,” he mumbled into his drink, “Then again you have never been subtle. Maybe you just have a thing for bird-related accessories.”

Anders had yet to recover and was standing aghast. “So, that’s it then.”

“Are you confirming my bird theory?”

“Malcolm,” Anders scoffed, “You just—“

“You already knew this about us, I just bothered to say it out loud. You can thank alcohol and inconsolable grief for that honesty. My distance from you has nothing to do with whether or not I _would_ —“ he lifted a brow, “—because what I _would_ _do_ involves that library and a desk and a letter opener and it would make even Isabela blush.”

“What does that even  _ mean _ ?”

“It doesn’t  _ mean _ anything. Sex rarely does.”

“This is just like you,” Anders rubbed his forehead, “You throw things into the void just to see if you can hear how far it goes but we never  _ talk _ about them.”

“Do you  _ want _ to talk about it?” Malcolm said pointedly, “When I am  _ this _ drunk and my house is this empty? Or would you prefer I shamelessly flirt with you to escape my never-ending plummet into the proverbial abyss? Because frankly, ma tempête, right  _ now _ ,” he leaned his forehead against the glass, “I don’t want the truth. I want lies. It’s sexier and I prefer we keep it that way. So, Anders,” he purred, “Tell me a lie and I’ll tell you something devastating about how good you look in those fucking feathers.”

“I hate you.”

“Yes, good start.”

“No, I really do right now.”

“Mmm,” Malcolm hummed into his near empty glass, “Debatable.”

The other mage sighed, exacerbated, and rubbed his eyes, “Fine, Malcolm. Fine. First, what does ‘ _ tempête _ ’ mean? I don’t speak Orlesian.”

“You said ‘bonjour’ when we were in Orlais with Tallis.”

Anders scoffed, “That’s literally all I know.”

Malcolm smiled at him warmly, jest aside, “It means storm.”

There was so much physical distance between them, Anders wandering aimlessly in the front room and Malcolm poised on the stairs, almost on the landing, looking down. But there was also what felt like a tangible cord lingering there, it had been there for years. It was starting to shorten and they both could feel it. It exhilarated one man and horrified the other.

“I see,” Anders said softly and swallowed. 

“Come on,” Malcolm gestured with his head and walked up the stairs, “Tell me a lie. They sound so good coming from you.”

Anders followed, tentatively, and ran his hand among the railing, steadying himself.

“When Carver was around, we used to play Wicked Grace together on the weekends and talk about the oppression of mages by the Chantry.”

“Perfect,” Malcolm called over his shoulder, languidly making his way up the stairs and onto the landing. 

“I got into a brawl with Aveline and I won.”

“Brilliant.”

Anders had caught up to him now and paused on the landing while Malcolm drunkenly waltzed his way into the master bedroom of the estate. The healer watched but didn’t move. Malcolm poked his head back out and gestured with his head, “I’m not done with you.”

With a swallow, Anders stepped over the invisible line that held him there and followed the other mage into the room. Malcolm loosely gestured to his bed. 

“Go ahead. Lie. Ha,” he snorted, “ _ Lie _ , on a bed. Even drunk my wit is astonishing.”

“Yes,” Anders grinned, obediently telling the lie, “Your wit is astonishing.”

Malcolm pointed a finger at him, “Clever boy, you. Sit.”

Tentatively, he did. Malcolm set the nearly empty glass down and walked over to the wardrobe, pulling out a white linen sleeping shirt and dark house pants, throwing them over his shoulder. He picked up the glass again, tossed it back, emptying it of its contents. Leaning on the bed frame, he gave Anders a probing expression. 

“If you want the performance you have to pay for it. Distract me,” he grinned, walking back to an area of the room that was closed off from Anders’ vision, shielded like a modesty curtain. “Go on,” he called out. Anders set his hands in his lap and sighed. 

“The Knight Commander and I write forbidden love letters during the week and Ser Cullen brings them to her.”

“Nauseating but also a  _ little  _ arousing?”

Anders grinned, “I am actually not a mage, just a very convincing master of sleight-of-hand.”

“ _ Ha _ .”

Deciding to be bold, he smiled and leant his head against the railing of the bed, “I don’t want to see you change.”

It was silent for a moment and Anders immediately felt anxious. Then, Malcolm walked out in the bedclothes he brought with him and leaned against the same opposing railing, giving him a knowing look. 

“I suppose I  _ did  _ say something about a performance,” he teased, “I should have.”

“I’m... glad you didn’t. For my sanity.”

“Is that a lie or the truth?”

“It’s both.”

“Hmm,” Malcolm paused, his expression pensive, with something softer beneath it. “My turn now,” he smiled, “I get to tell you devastating truths.”

“Alright,” Anders said, narrowing his eyes.

“You do look good in those fucking feathers.”

Anders snorted, “Thank you.”

Malcolm sighed and walked around to the other side of the bed, sitting down on it and rubbing his eyes. He leaned into his hands.

“You remind me of the best parts of my father. It’s terrifying,” he mumbled.

Anders was quiet for a moment before he offered a small, “Another one.”

Malcolm looked back at him with a tired smile, “ _ Greedy _ .”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine, then. Kirkwall doesn’t deserve you.”

“Give me another.”

His expression fell, slightly, “Neither do I.”

Anders took in a sharp breath and managed a weak smile, “The lies we’re supposed to be my thing. That isn’t true. Tell me something else that’s true.”

Malcolm took in a long breath laid back against the pillow, his hand over his face. 

“You scare me,” he said through muffled fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Anders murmured.

“Not in the way you’re thinking. Justice doesn’t scare me, he never has.  _ You  _ just—“ he sighed. Malcolm peaked through his fingers, as if deciding whether or not to speak. He looked knee at the fireplace and his normally open blue eyes looked shadowed and grey and clouded. “I don’t want to close my eyes,” he sighed and glanced at Anders, “I’m perfectly content in my current state of being which is rare for me.”

Anders pursed his lips, “You need to sleep.”

“If I sleep then I’ll miss it and I can’t get it back. If I don’t close my eyes then I can’t open them to an empty room,” Malcolm spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.

“Malcolm,” Anders offered with gentle understanding, standing up and walking over to the edge and sitting next to him. It was a tentative motion, like approaching an injured halla.

“What.”

He smiled, “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Malcolm swallowed, “Is that another little lie?”

“No,” Anders said softly, “the truth.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said and looked at the fireplace, the hallway, the room. He knew it was a source of heartache now, from Fenris. He looked back at him, “I don’t plan to walk away.”

With a slow intake of breath, Malcolm nodded and looked up at the ceiling,“Do you want another devastating truth?” he said after a moment.

“Yes.”

“You have healing hands,” he said softly, “It’s who you are. I break everything I hold in mine. You heal over and over again and all I do is bleed on you. I have no idea how long you're going to take it before you realize it’s not worth the stain."

“Do you want another lie?”

Rubbing his eyes, Malcolm groaned, “Maybe tell me the truth this time.”

“Alright,” Anders murmured, “I like the way you stain.”

He removed his hand, looking over at the healer and studied his face, warm in firelight, “You really believe in things with more fire than the sun, don’t you?” he said, almost in awe. 

“Yes.”

“Even in me.”

“Especially in you.”

“Foolish.”

“Maybe. Go to sleep, Malcolm. I’ll be here.”

Slowly, Malcolm closed his eyes and felt the weight of sleep start to coat his skin.  _ I know, Anders. You’re good at that. _

* * *

The morning was cool and kind and sunlight lingered in through the windows of the estate. It was a comforting scene, set in contrast by the ebb and flow of tensions the night before, riddling in the dark. Anders fell asleep on a chair in the corner of the room, setting himself against the back of it and pulling his legs over the seat. It was unlikely that it was comfortable. Malcolm was sitting by the fireplace, barefoot and breathless, watching him sleep. As was something of a usual routine, he was casually playing with an old lute he had inherited from a young bard, waiting for the other mage to stir. With steady breath, in and out and in and out, he journeyed through the Fade. His expression was sometimes pained and sometimes pleasant. It was wonderful to behold how much vivacity it had, even in dreams. He started to wake up, mumbling to himself, brown eyes fluttering open and adjusting to the light. Anders’ hair was a mess of blonde tangled, pressed against the back of the dark chair. Sunlight on a cold morning, a crown for a man without a kingdom. He cleared his throat and awkwardly repositioned himself, rubbing his neck. It was not a good night’s sleep. 

“Coffee or tea?” Malcolm asked, still sitting across the room. 

“Whatever you don’t want,” Anders mumbled, rubbing his eyes. Malcolm, amused, stood and walked over to the desk in the far corner of the room where he had left two small pots with accompanying mugs prepared.

“Believe it or not,” he chuckled, “Sometimes you  _ can  _ actually get what you want. There’s enough for both of us so choose.”

Anders sat up, still stiff, and rubbed the back of his neck again, soothing the ache. 

“I’m not used to that.”

“I know,” Malcolm said, opening the pots and leaning on the desk, “I am trying to retrain you. Coffee or tea.”

“Tea.”

“Good,” he said and poured some into a mug. The way that steam danced in the light of the morning was almost poetic. Malcolm walked over to where he was sitting and handed it to him. For a second, their fingers brushed and Anders stiffened at the brief sensation. 

“Thank you,” he said, untying his hair and running his free hand through it in an attempt to calm its chaos. Blonde strands fell over his eyes and he worked them back into their usual position, tied back and somewhat less wild. Somewhat. 

“Mmhmm,” Malcolm hummed, his eyes lingering for a moment on the wisps of blonde before returning to the floor, with a cup of coffee in hand. 

Anders watched, taking slow sips of the hot tea and narrowed his eyes, “I didn’t know you could play the lute. Then again, I didn’t know you spoke Orlesian either.”

“I don’t. A bard taught me a little of the language,” he smirked suggestively, “I taught her a few things as well that I doubt she had experienced,” He looked at the lute, “It’s not hard, the fingering is easy,” he glanced at Anders, “Maker, I want to make a joke about that but the fruit is so low to the ground it's practically Mags.”

“If you make a short joke around her you probably won’t have any fingers to play with.”

Malcolm snorted and played with the strings for a minute. “I wrote something for Isa once,” he smiled, a melody barely making itself heard, “Romance was never our thing, really. Never crossed our minds. Sex was uncomplicated. Easier that way, if you’re just friends. It rarely stays that simple, does it?” he said pointedly, looking at Anders.

“No,” Anders murmured, “It doesn’t.”

He held his gaze for a moment and then looked back down at the lute with a slight smile, if a bit smug. “Wrote something for you too.”

Anders’ felt his lungs nearly collapse, “What?”

That smug smile increased in its vivacity, “You move to poetic declarations, what can I say? Well,” he sighed, “Not poetic  _ declarations _ , there’s no words. Just a melody,” he narrowed his eyes in an attempt to focus, staring at the ceiling as if the music was waiting there, and started to play with the strings, plucking out a melody quietly, “But it  _ feels  _ like you.”

“Can I hear it?”

“No,” Malcolm smirked.

“Why not?”

“It’s too revealing, it's like taking off my clothes in front of you.”

“You could do that, too,” Anders teased. 

Malcolm snorted and took another sip of his coffee. They sat there in the morning for a while, the freshness of it revitalizing them. Birds sang outside the open balcony doors and the noise of Hightown filtered in. There was a tension that existed that hadn’t when he woke up and Anders was a smart enough man to know that Malcolm would never address it on his own. 

“I think,” he sighed, leaning over in the chair and holding the tea in front of him, “that we need to have this conversation or we never will.”

Malcolm glanced up at him underneath a veil of dark hair, still fumbling with the lute.

“You aren’t going to like what that looks like,” he warned gently.

“I’ve seen broodmothers,” Anders affirmed, “I won’t shake in my boots.”

With a deep inhale, as if trying to take in courage through his lungs, Malcolm looked up at him fully with a firm, but open, expression, “I can’t, Anders.”

The other mage’s lips twitched and he set his tea down, watching Malcolm’s face closely. 

“You ‘can’t’,” he repeated, “That’s it?”

“Yes. I know how much those words hurt,” he glanced at the bed, his expression darkening before he looked back at him, “because I’ve been you. In this room, in that bed, in the dark.” He stood, set the lute down and walked over to where Anders was sitting and knelt in front of him, his expression laden with apology. “I’ve been you,” he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “And ‘I can’t’ is all I can offer.”

Anders looked down at him with wide eyes, guarded and unsure, “Why?” he asked finally, his throat closing, threatening to cut the words off and strangle his resolve.

With a shuddering breath, Malcolm said, “I can’t give you something I don’t have. You want pieces of me that I still haven’t recovered. But,” he sighed, exhausted, “there is something I can give you and I intend to force you to take it.  _ Respectfully _ ,” he smirked.

“What is that?” Anders asked cautiously. 

“Move in.”

He almost choked on his own words, “You’re  _ kidding _ .”

“No, I’m not,” Malcolm shook his head and stood and walked over to the window, glancing outside, “I woke up this morning and made a decision. I had been thinking about it.”

“What, just move into the estate?”

“Yes.”

“ _ Why?” _

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair. “Isabela would be proud of my phrasing but here it goes,” he said, “I can’t give you what you want but I can give you what you need. You need a safe place. I have one. There’s beds in this house that are empty and I sleep in one and you sleep on the floor. That is an injustice if ever I saw one,” Malcolm grinned, “And we  _ know _ how much you hate injustice, Anders.”

The other mage stood up and walked over to the window and looked over Hightown, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. 

“The Templars have been coming around the clinic more frequently,” he mused, “I know it's been expensive for Varric—” he eyed him, “—and I know you have had something to do with that as well.”

Malcolm shrugged, “You said you would ‘drown us in blood to keep me safe’. I quite literally drown in blood on a daily basis so asking the Viscount for a favor proved to be easy work in comparison.”

Anders leaned on the balcony railing, the sunlight warming his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in the air deeply, coated in morning cold. 

“You’re confusing, you know.”

“I know. This can’t mean what you want it to, not yet. But that doesn’t mean I’m not trying.”

Anders turned around and leaned on the balcony with his back, his arms crossed, “Alright,” he said, “I’ll move in.”

Malcolm grinned, “Good.”

“I wish you didn’t tell me that library fantasy though, that was a low blow. Now I have to look at it every day with that in mind.”

“Mmm,” Malcolm chuckled, walking away from the balcony and back to the fireplace, settling on the floor, “Just give me a decade or so and we can explore that, if Kirkwall is still here when I am done with it.”

“I can wait," the healer said, soft and serious.

Malcolm glanced up at him with a pained expression, “I know, Anders. I know.”

He turned back to the lute and they sat in the quiet, the plucking of its strings narrating a silent resignation from one mage and growing guilt from the other. 

_ You’re just so good at that too. _


End file.
